The Convenient Wife

Stepping into the dress, I pull it up over my hips and slide my arms into the sleeves. The fabric is soft and luckily it’s my favorite color—black. It seems like it will fit perfectly. The curves in the skirt wrap my hips tightly, the hem sits just beneath the dip of my ass.

I was never a dress kind of girl, but this dress is slowly changing my mind.

Reaching around, I grab the zipper and try to zip it up. It goes about two inches, but then I lose it.

Damn it.

Attempting to grab it again, I can’t. No matter which way I try, I just can’t stretch enough to get a hold of it.

Come on.

“One minute left!”

“That’s not fair!” I yell back, spinning in a circle and trying to see the zipper in the mirror.

It’s this damn monstrosity on my hand. Pulling the ring off my finger, I set it on the nightstand and try to reach the zipper again.

Fail. It doesn’t make a difference, ring or no ring, the zipper was becoming my enemy.

Bolt lets out a loud laugh as he speaks through the door. “Hey, you said it. This is your challenge.”

“Yeah, but you want me to wear a dress. I don’t normally wear dresses, it’s not my thing. I can’t get the stupid zipper.”

“Need some help?”

“No,” I tell him, pulling on the bottom of the dress and trying to stretch it down in an attempt to reach the little metal tag.

“Are you sure? Because I don’t mind.” His fingertips dance across the door one after the other, tapping it in succession. “To be fair, I won’t even count it against you. I’ll put minutes back on the clock and everything.”

“Seriously, this isn’t fair. I think you rigged this dress.” Trying to peek behind myself to find the zipper, I drop my arms, and hang my head. I’m not even close. “Okay.” I don’t have a choice, there’s no way in hell I’ll ever be able to reach it, not without turning into a contortionist. And I’ve never been that flexible.

I hear the door creak open, but I stay facing the bed, twisting my head just enough to see his shape as he moves through the room in my peripheral vision. “I can’t get this fucking thing.”

“I’ve got it, no worries.” His finger softly touches my shoulder as he untwists the strap. Adjusting the other strap so both are even, he starts to pull up the zipper. Bolt goes quiet, and I feel the tips of his fingers trace the top of my left shoulder. “You have goosebumps.”

Looking back at him over my shoulder, there’s a look in his eyes. He’s staring at me as his fingers explore more of my back, more skin, more exposed pieces of my body.

They tickle down my spine, moving softly side to side. His thumb finds the dimple just above my ass and draws small circles.

“Your skin is so soft, it’s like velvet.” His hand moves up the center of my back, following the contour of my spine.

My body starts to tremble, my heart starts to race. Tingles are running through ever muscle, coalescing between my thighs. Licking my lips, I let him touch me, silently giving him permission to keep going.

I know I shouldn’t want this. I know that what we’re creating here is fake. But what I feel right now is very real.

“I like seeing those goosebumps. . .” The tips of his fingers work around my ribs, settling on my belly, and pulling me up straight. “Because they’re mine. I made them, no one else.” His hand slides smoothly up my stomach and between my breasts. “Do you like them?”

I can hear him breathing. It’s deep, labored, gritty in a way that makes me shiver and want more. More of his breath on my skin, more against my neck, enough to make me feel full inside and out.

Nodding, I moan softly as his hand massages my throat, causing my head to roll and my back to arch. “I do, I like them a lot.” My eyes close as my head drops, falling back against his chest.

His firm muscles cradle my skull as his mouth roams the side of my face and his lips sweep over my cheek. Kisses find my neck, tender and gentle, but with a fierceness that makes my pussy throb.

My belly clenches as one of his hands runs over my breast and down my ribs, while the other is perched under my chin, holding my head in place.

This man is touching me like he owns me, as if my body has been his all along and he knows exactly where to go to make me crumble, to make me fall for him, to make me beg for him.

I’ve suddenly become an instrument, with strings for him to pluck and stroke, finger and play. My body is his to do what he wants. And I’m happy to let him have me.